Why I’m Not 6’6” (Blame My Dad)

It all started with basketball. As a kid, basketball wasn’t just a game—it was an obsession. I dribbled everywhere I went. The ball was like an extension of me, whether I was at the park, walking to school, or in our living room (which, I quickly learned, was a terrible idea).

We lived in a tiny second floor apartment. My bedroom I shared with my grandma and when the slide out bed was fully extended there wasnt enough space to even walk around the bed. Thus, I spent much time in the living room, still pretending I was Penny Hardaway. Every time I practiced my crossover inside, Mr. Garber, our downstairs neighbor, would remind me—loudly—by banging his broom against the ceiling. Eventually, I had to walk downstairs, look him in the eye, and apologize. But nothing could stop my love for the game.

I didn’t just play basketball—I studied it. My obsession went beyond the court and into the details of what it took to be great. Watching Ultimate Jordan, a DVD celebrating the career of Michael Jordan, I learned about MJ’s legendary work ethic. One anecdote stood out: Jordan said he used to hang from a pull-up bar to help him grow taller. To my 10-year-old brain, this was the key to unlocking my own basketball greatness.

I begged my parents for a pull-up bar. They thought I’d use it to build muscle, but I had other plans. Every day, I’d hang from that bar like a bat, willing myself to grow. When that didn’t work, I turned to the internet, diving into early AOL forums where people shared every questionable height-increasing technique under the sun: limb-lengthening surgery, shin microfractures, stretching devices that looked like medieval torture machines.

The most promising method? Hypnosis CDs. I ordered them and would lie in bed every night, entering a meditative state to “activate my growth hormones.” But my dad, with impeccable timing, would interrupt, asking why AOL wasn’t working. “Dad, you’re breaking my meditative state!” I’d shout. To this day, I blame him for the fact that I’m not 6’6”.

The Mixtape Hustle

Basketball wasn’t just about playing—it was about the culture. And nothing captured that better than And1 mixtapes. If you know, you know. These were legendary streetball highlight reels featuring players pulling off jaw-dropping moves. The problem? You could only get them by buying And1 sneakers, and my parents weren’t about to splurge on that.

I found a workaround. Through online forums, I discovered people sharing And1 mixtapes digitally. The files were split into dozens of .RAR parts, and downloading them over dial-up internet was a test of patience. If someone picked up the phone mid-download, I’d get kicked offline and have to start over. But eventually, I pieced the files together.

Now I had the mixtapes—and an idea. Using our Compaq computer with a CD-RW drive, I burned the files onto VCDs (CDs that could play in a DVD) and listed them on eBay. Orders started rolling in. Since I didn’t have a bank account, buyers sent postal money orders, which I cashed at the post office. Every afternoon, I’d rush home from school to intercept the mail before my dad did.

For a while, the operation ran smoothly. It felt like I’d hacked the system—until I decided to expand.

Sideline Story

Playing varsity basketball was supposed to be a dream come true. My junior year, our team went 23-3, beating some of the best schools in New Jersey and making the Final Four of the Jamboree. But I barely played. I spent every game on the bench, working with Noah Baer on our dropstep behind the bench to the water station, passing water cups to Josh Williams, our star player, during timeouts and practicing moves in the shadows behind the seats.

In practice, I wasn’t even part of the main practice rotation. I sat on the sidelines while the starters ran plays. One day, our coach called me out after I seemed distracted. “Frank, what’s this play called?”

“Texas Reverse,” I answered without hesitation.

He expected me to stumble, but I didn’t. I knew every play by heart. My problem wasn’t focus or effort—it was not getting the chance to prove what I could do. My mind was always moving faster than people gave me credit for.

I decided that summer would be different. I wanted my senior year to be my time. Friday nights I volunteered at my church's parenting group to be a babysitter. The parents would meet (and still do 20 years later) to talk about their lives and dealing with their kids. The kids would go with me to the church's gym where a young Michael Bello and the Presby Players would work on their broadway shows while I got my shots up on the basketball hoop. To be real, I didn't really babysit them much.

My friend Ish, one of the kindest and most dependable people I know, got me a key to the school gym which was a few block from my house. While my classmates partied (to put it mildly) or chased other distractions, I spent my nights in the gym.

One Saturday at 10 p.m., I was about to leave when my coach walked in.

“How did you get in here?” he demanded. “I know you’ve been coming in here. You left the lights on one night. If you want to practice, go take a camp!”

I couldn’t believe it. I thought he’d appreciate my determination to get better. I figured he would find a way to channel that energy into some other format. Instead, it felt like my effort wasn’t welcome. He took the key back.

When the season started, it was clear my opportunity wasn’t coming. He recruited someone to play my position, and the offense was built around him. Sidelined in another way.

The Lesson

Basketball has been the throughline of my life—a game that shaped not just my dreams but also how I approach the world. From dribbling in the living room and devouring Ultimate Jordan to selling And1 mixtapes and grinding in the gym late at night, the game taught me discipline, hustle, and resilience.

Whether I was sidelined on a Hall of Fame team or running my first entrepreneurial hustle, basketball inspired me to push forward, even when recognition or opportunity didn’t come. It taught me that the work you put in when no one is watching often defines your greatest successes. The journey may feel unfinished, but the lessons are timeless—and that fire to keep striving burns as strong as ever.

The dream was always to be 6'6", but the reality is that the best goals—the ones truly meant for us—are often beyond what we could ever imagine.